


Sixteen Percent Milkfat By Volume

by sabinelagrande



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Hearts and Rainbows, Ice Cream, M/M, Nothing About This Is Not Homoerotic, Pre-Slash, WAFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-28
Updated: 2012-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-02 15:20:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow it's really depressing that Coulson is just too pragmatic for ice cream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sixteen Percent Milkfat By Volume

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theleaveswant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleaveswant/gifts).



It's kind of Clint's fault, to be honest. They get no sun at headquarters, because it's not exactly a good idea for a secure government compound to have windows; but, of course, Tony has come up with a solution. It only took about four days before he made his own windows, taking the outdoor surveillance feed and projecting it in panes onto the walls in the lab. At first there were was a sky on the ceiling, but Thor wouldn't stop staring up at it all the time and making loud proclamations about Harry Potter- and when Thor makes proclamations, he makes very sure to check and confirm that everyone in the room, individually, has heard them.

Maybe it was a bad idea to teach him to read English, maybe it was a bad idea to assume that a guy who came from a fantasy world himself would be totally inured to a little thing like indoor sky, but either way, it had to go. He heard Tony hooked it up in his room for him, but it's not like Clint has any good reason to check.

So Clint's sitting around, and he's practiced all he can practice, and he's written all the mission reports he can write, and he's read all the documentation he can read, and he is _bored_ , which is something that he's pretty sure he's never said before here.

Clint is sitting in the lab watching Bruce and Tony do whatever it is they do. "We need to go outside," he says idly, looking out the "window"; a bird is flying past, and the sky is a lovely shade of blue.

Tony immediately drops whatever tool he's holding, which he probably made himself and is probably worth millions of dollars. "Ice cream," he says, in the same voice he uses when he comes up with all his great discoveries and terrible theme party ideas, pushing back from the lab table and walking out.

Clint and Bruce shrug at each other; Bruce goes back to what he's doing, but Clint follows Tony out, because now he's intrigued.

Tony's plan is simple. "There's a park a half-mile away," he says, calling up an area map on one of the displays, because why waste time doing anything simply when you can make it flashy. "Great little ice cream stand. Lots of trees. Perfect for a little relaxation." He gives Fury the kind of winning smile that he knows very well has no effect on him; it's just that Tony has to be Tony. "Nothing's tried to kill us in at least two weeks. We can afford to live a little." He pauses. "A little more than _usual_."

Fury thinks it's hilarious, because Fury spends half his time looking like he wants to take them all up to the helicarrier and throw them off and the other half looking like he's two seconds away from maniacal cackling.

"I need you to be an escort for this teambuilding exercise," he tells Coulson, a little bit of mischief in his eye.

"Yes, Director," Coulson says, in that voice that very transparently means "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, Director," which, when they're not under active threat, for some reason amuses Fury.

"I want you ready to roll out in fifteen," Fury says, gravitas in his voice and a smirk on his lips, presumably just to piss Coulson off a little bit more.

Bruce can't be tempted out of his lab for love or money- and honestly, around here they could probably find him some of both, so that's not an empty statement- so they set off without him: Thor, Steve, Tony, Natasha, and Clint, with Coulson bringing up the rear. It's a nice stroll; it's even better out here than it looked in Tony's projections, just the right temperature, the sun warming his skin.

He's walking along sort of in the back; he's not feeling particularly talkative, so it makes perfect sense to walk next to Coulson. Coulson is, wonder beyond wonders, not actually wearing a full suit and tie; he still looks every inch the G-man, black trousers and a form-fitting black t-shirt, and somehow he doesn't look any more relaxed than usual. He's not wearing his sunglasses, and Clint can't decide if that's a bad thing or not- he might look like a badass, or he might look like an off-duty bouncer.

Coulson's appearance is only catching Clint's attention because everybody else looks totally normal- except maybe Thor, because it's always weird to see a Norse god wearing anything that doesn't look like it came from a Renn Faire- or maybe Natasha, who's dressed kind of like a Jazzercize instructor.

Anyway, when they get to the park, Tony makes a beeline for the ice cream stand and ushers them in, assuring that he is, of course, paying, even though he does, of course, own the ice cream stand, so money is, of course, no object. When Steve finds out they make ice cream sodas- which Clint didn't know _anybody_ still made- it's like he's just been told that he gets to have two Christmasses and six birthdays this year. Tony steps in and buys two, but then he orders two scoops of vanilla with pretty much every topping.

Steve looks at him in confusion. "Drinking two ice cream sodas is probably the most hedonistic thing you'll do all week, big guy," Tony says, clapping him on the shoulder, and Steve is too busy looking floored over the prospect of not one, but _two_ ice cream sodas that he doesn't have a snappy comeback.

The ice cream is duly ordered and distributed, and Tony shuffles them out again. With his typical disregard for- well, everything that doesn't suit him, really, Tony walks out into the park, setting off across the grass with no attention paid whatsoever to sidewalks and the like. 

They're barely any distance away from the ice cream place when a kid goes running past, weaving through them at top speed; Clint barely manages to save his waffle cone in time, the top scoop looking a little like it's going to make a break for it. But with comical precision, Coulson's cone of chocolate chocolate chip takes a nosedive, landing with a splat on the grass, and everyone- okay, all the people who are both from Earth and American freeze, out of some weird instinct. Clint's inner six-year-old is hurting pretty badly for Coulson right now, for reasons that are kind of inexplicable but definitely bone deep.

"I'm so sorry," Steve says, in a hushed tone, because _Steve_ gets it.

Clint might honestly tear up if he was in Coulson's shoes right now, but Coulson is just looking at the lost ice cream, his lips pursed. "Oh well," he says, and he steps around it, like it's not really, _really_ sad.

Clint looks over at Tony, and Tony takes a look at Steve. Tony cocks his head back towards the ice cream stand, and Steve nods; they slip off unnoticed, and then Clint realizes he's been left behind by the rest of the pack.

Thor is standing by the swingset, coffee caramel swirl in one hand, other hand pushing some kid who's swinging, all the while chatting up what must be the kid's mom or babysitter or something. She's at least a foot shorter than him, and she's twirling her hair a little- it's adorable and bizarre at the same time, which describes at least seventy percent of the non-combat situations that involve Thor. Natasha is on top of the monkey bars, pacing idly across them while eating her cup of lemon lavender; Clint kind of wants to tell her to get down from there before some kid tries to copy her and breaks its neck, but Coulson has wandered off by himself, and Clint decides he'd rather spend his time catching up to him. Maybe he's afraid Coulson is going to drown himself in the lake out of grief over his lost ice cream cone, or maybe it's just that Coulson has this bad habit of looking like he needs a hug sometimes. It's weird, because he has the same level of vaguely sarcastic emotionlessness all the time, but sometimes Clint just knows intuitively that it's worse.

Intuition. Noticing things. Kind of in his job description. Kind of in his _codename_.

Coulson has picked a spot on the grassy slope overlooking the lake; he's sitting on the grass with his legs stretched out in front of him, taking in the view. Clint sits down next to him; he's found a nice place, the lake framed through the trees, sun reflecting off it.

They don't talk for a moment; Clint eats his ice cream, feeling increasingly bad about it, because Coulson- he isn't saying anything, but it feels like he feels forlorn, and if he doesn't he should be.

"Have a bite," Clint says, offering the cone to him. "Butter pecan."

"It's fine," Coulson says.

"It's no big deal, I got two scoops," he says dismissively. "I can't eat all of it."

"Then why did you get it?" Coulson asks, and somehow it's really depressing that Coulson is just too pragmatic for ice cream.

"I have poor impulse control," Clint tells him, smiling. "Also they're different flavors. Come on, have a bite."

Coulson reaches to take the cone away from him, but Clint pulls it back. "Here, just lick it," he says, and the moment he says it he knows it was a poor choice of words, but Coulson just raises an eyebrow at him. "It's dripping. You don't want sticky hands," he concludes, and none of the rest of that made it sound even a fraction less questionable.

But when Clint offers him the cone again, Coulson leans down to take a taste. It must be because he's already got dirty on the brain, but there's something about the combination of what this looks like and the innocence of the situation, and Clint is aware that he's kind of staring. Unfortunately, Coulson apparently has some kind of sixth sense about that. Coulson looks up at him through his lashes- what the _hell_ , since when does _Coulson_ have _eyelashes_?- frowning at him. "You're making fun of me."

Clint swallows. "I'm trying to feed you ice cream," he protests. "If I wanted to make fun of you, I could do that and keep my ice cream to myself."

"The ice cream could be a lure," Coulson points out. "Or it could be given out of pity after you've had fun."

Clint shakes the cone at him. "Look, eat the damn ice cream, or I'm going to eat it."

Coulson gives him another very suspicious look, but he lowers his head, sucking off a bite from the top. "It's good," he says around it, and something about that is so strange, the fact that Coulson is talking with his mouth full. It's so little, but it goes right against everything he thinks about Coulson, completely proper all the time, textbook.

Clint takes it back, having another bite before offering it to Coulson again; they pass it back and forth like that until all the butter pecan is gone. It's Coulson's turn when they get to the second scoop, and he looks up in faint surprise when he tastes it. "Chocolate chocolate chip?"

"My second favorite," Clint tells him, scooping it up with his tongue. The ice cream is really dripping now, and Clint licks it off his hand; he catches Coulson looking at him when he does it, but he doesn't stop.

A few minutes more, and they're getting down to the end of the chocolate; suddenly Coulson gets brave, taking a chunk out of the cone itself. "Hey, hey now, you can't have any waffle cone," Clint says, pulling it away, and Coulson chases it with his mouth. "That's for me."

"Come on, Barton," he says, and holy shit, he might actually be laughing, "give me a bite."

Clint makes a show of relenting, though he refuses to let Coulson have any of the very bottom part, where all the ice cream has melted into the tip; Coulson may or may not be watching him eat it, and Clint may or may not be aware of this, which is why he may or may not be playing it up.

But now they're done, and Clint wipes his hand with the napkins, which, of course, does nothing. While he's paying attention to that, Coulson goes a little tenser beside him, and Clint pops his head up; it's just Steve and Tony, but Clint kind of really didn't want them to turn back up- but it's much better for them to show up now than to have shown up about five minutes ago. Clint is still not entirely sure what's going on here, but the absolute last thing he needs is Tony Stark in the middle of it.

"They ran out of chocolate chocolate chip," Tony says, "so we brought chocolate chili. Figured you could stand to live a little, although it looks like you already- ow, Jesus!" he hisses, the way only a man who's just been kicked in the shin by a supersoldier can. 

Steve looks perfectly innocent, taking the cone away before Tony can drop it and holding it out. "It's really good," he promises, handing it over to Coulson. "Come on," he says to Tony, helping him hop away.

They're left sitting there, alone again, looking at each other, and Clint's not sure what's supposed to happen now. There's nothing in SHIELD SOP about sharing ice cream with your handler, especially when you do it in what Clint has to admit is a definitely homoerotic, possibly flirtatious way.

Clint is about to speak- he has no idea what he's going to say- but before he can, Coulson holds the cone out, shaking at him a little, and Clint just laughs and takes a bite.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Sixteen Percent Milkfat By Volume [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/509966) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)




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